Baile
by StarKatt427
Summary: A contemplation on the relationship between the MacManus brothers from Connor's viewpoint. Set sometime before the first movie.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints, nor its sequel, as Troy Duffy is the rightful creator. I wouldn't mind owning the MacManus brothers though.**

**A/N: I would have never discovered these two characters if not for my sister and her obsession with Norman Reedus after watching The Walking Dead. Once I finally watched the show with her, I began to love the series as well, and around the middle of Season 2, I started liking Norman as an actor. She got this movie for Christmas, and I finally got around to watching it, and I love it! Seriously, it's an awesome movie. One aspect that I really enjoyed was the relationship between the brothers, and I just knew I had to write something****; I just adore brother relationships, and I was so glad that they actually had a few moments in the movie.** So this is what I got, starting and finishing the day after I watched it, which is something I have _never_ done.

**The title of this, according to Google Translate, is Irish for "home". You'll see why :)  
**

**I'd like to maybe do something else with them one day, because I like writing their relationship (and their accents). Just a quick warning: If you've seen the movie, you know what the language is like. This is the first time I've added one of the more profane cuss words, so if you don't like that, just try to look over it.**

_*****Re-updated as of 7/8/2013*****_

**StarKatt427**

* * *

Connor MacManus cannot remember a time when he was truly without his twin. Sure, there are periods when he goes off by himself at night or Murphy doesn't show up until the next morning, and plenty of them. If he was constantly with his brother, there would be more fights, bigger ones than the spats they have and more violent than what they already are, so it's good for their relationship; it makes them better. They aren't always together, but most of the time, they are, like when they were wrapped around one another inside their mother's belly, and when they were growing up surrounded by green, green Irish hills, and when they decided to leave home and move to Boston. Connor knows that if they didn't fight, something would be off, because Murphy's too hot headed and he's too practical, so there are bound to be arguments, brawls even, though they've never taken it far enough to permanently damage their relationship. If that's even possible.

In all honesty, Connor knows they hardly look anything alike, admits it, just as he knows Murphy does: fraternal twins who barely even resemble one another save identical eyes, the same blue as their ma's, and the cocky, mischievous smile she said they both inherited from their father. They don't even share the same hair color, Murphy's being several shades darker than his. But there is no denying that they are brothers, twins of the same womb, connected before they ever entered the world. They've argued over it for years, betted even, on who was born first, and even after they've long become men and left for America, their mother still will not tell them which is older. Murphy believes he is, but Connor thinks otherwise; of course he does. He almost feels it.

But really, it doesn't matter. Of course, he wants to know, but regardless of who was born first, it changes nothing: they are twins, brothers, and even if their mother finally tells them which one is the oldest and it turns out to be Murphy, that feeling of protectiveness Connor feels will not go away.

It's hard to explain, so he's never tried, not to himself and especially not to Murphy, who would kick his teeth in and then shove his foot up his ass if he ever knew that his brother considers it his responsibility to watch out for him more than he already does. It's what they do on a regular basis, guard each other's back, but Connor feels that for him, it runs just a little deeper. He knows, somewhere inside his very being, that he is the one who needs to make the difficult and painful decisions, who needs to keep an eye of Murphy, who is ruled by emotion rather than thought, even when his brother is taking care of his own. It's always been this way, and even though he sometimes feels like he's constantly trying to pull Murphy out of some sort of trouble, Connor doesn't mind.

He rarely shows this feeling, because Murphy is no novice when it comes to fighting (his brother can handle himself and Connor knows it), and because it's not allowed; they aren't men for any sort of affection, but despite this, there are still times when Connor does express the raging emotions that affect him when it comes to his brother: pride when he sees Murphy take out one of the bastards they so often find themselves fighting with; contentment when he sees him happy, laughing and living and cutting up; anger when their personalities and ideas clash and a row commences; shame when the words he speaks are just enough to birth a flash of hurt in his brother's eyes that is quickly hidden behind a veil of indifference; fear, utter fear, during a fight when he catches a glimpse of Murphy on the ground, not moving, face bloodied and beat all to hell. That one's the worst, when he sees his brother, his _twin_, looking so defenseless when he's anything but, and then he will do anything to get to him, to lunge at the men who have beaten him down, diving in with fists and elbows and anything he can find, keeping himself between Murphy and the bastards who are going to rue the day they ever laid eyes on the MacManus brothers.

After the men have fled and it's just him sucking in great gasps of air, covered in blood and body not quite yet throbbing with bruises and busted knuckles, he'll turn back to Murphy and nearly collapse next to him, so relieved when he sees his brother's chest rise and fall with jerking breaths, the darker haired man sporting numerous cuts and contusions, the same as him. And then Murphy will look at him, trying to sit up and cringing against the pain, and Connor will place a gentle hand on his shoulder, urging him to be careful; sometimes he brushes the action off, but not always, and when he doesn't, he'll stare up into eyes exactly like his own and Connor down into eyes exactly like his own, barely able to force anything out of his tight throat except, "Ye asshole, what the fuck were ye doin', gettin' knocked down like that?" It will come out rough, thick with repressed emotion as he grins at his twin, and then Murphy will scowl at him, though he knows good and well the words hold no malice and understands instantly what is running through Connor as he replies, "I had it under control, didn't need no fuckin' help."

It's a lie. Not every time, but on occasion. And it's just as true for Connor as for Murphy. Sometimes, it is Murphy who is overprotective, like when Connor, exhausted from working too many long hours at a time, finds himself confined to bed with a fever and chills, and Murphy will constantly snap at him to take better care of himself, to slow it down, all while making sure he receives any medicine needed, even if they have trouble affording it; or when some drunk asshole pops out a gun and starts firing off shots in a bar, and as the brothers dive to the floor and away from the bullets, searching for the door, Connor will feel a hand on his shoulder, grasping to send him forward or assessing that there in no damage done to him or both, he doesn't know and probably never will.

Maybe Murphy feels that pull just as he does.

Like who was really born first, it doesn't matter to Connor.

In a quiet moment like this, after a brawl and when it is only the two of them, Connor will kneel down in front of his brother and take his head in his hands, pressing their foreheads together, and he'll just _breathe_. It's the one most calming thing he has ever known save for when he feels the burdens lift off his heart as he prays to the Lord, these few seconds they allow where everything is silent and whole and right, when he feels Murphy's hands gripping his hair and his brother push against him, the two of them inhaling and exhaling through their noses, feeling the flush of blood and the pounding of each other's pulse and the beating of each other's heart, and in those moments, all Connor can do is thank God that he was born with this man that he cannot imagine living without or apart from. They'll often slip into Irish as they stay like this, their native tongue familiar and comforting as Connor asks, "_Tá tú ceart go leor?_" **You okay?**

"_Tá mé go maith. Tú?_"**I'm good. You?**

"_Céanna anseo._" **Same here.**

He will feel Murphy relax ever so slightly, nod his head and grip his forearm. And then that's it. Connor will get back to his feet and lift Murphy's arm over his shoulders, letting his brother lean on him as they head back to the shitty flat that is there home.

Once more, it doesn't matter: not who was born first, not what the hand on his shoulder means, and not what country they are living in. After all, Connor's home is with his brother.


End file.
